Lady Parts
by Etaleah
Summary: Parenthood is always tough, but being two men raising a daughter comes with a unique set of challenges.
1. Bath Time

The first time was when John came down with the flu. Sherlock had babysat his goddaughter—well, adopted daughter as of last month, he thought with a fluttering heart—on many occasions, but this was the first time he had 24/7 responsibility for her. He would have to do everything, from feeding to changing to bedtime and bath time. The latter was what ended up being the problem.

Up to this point it had been going well. Rosie had been fed, changed—constantly, Sherlock thought—and generally kept safe for the past two days. But now the peas that she had spilled all over herself at dinner were sticking to her skin, and there was no getting around it. He had to bathe her.

 _A simple task_ , Sherlock thought, and at first it was. Rosie loved baths, so there was no fuss other than her excessively splashing the water and soaking Sherlock's clothes. He didn't mind that; seeing her smile up at him and babble from her little bath in the kitchen sink more than made up for it. But as he took the soap and scrubbed her arms and legs and back and got her hair all sudsy, a thought occurred to him.

Was he supposed to wash her…down there?

He paused mid-scrub and thought. It seemed like he should. It could get dirty just like any other part of the body. John had told him in no uncertain terms that he was to make sure he wiped every last nook and cranny when changing her nappy to ensure there was no mess hiding. But would it be appropriate in the bathtub? It was one thing to use a small baby wipe to quickly clean up a mess. Pushing a big bar of soap between her legs seemed more invasive. And if he did, he'd have to wash it out. That could involve even sticking his fingers in there. Just the thought made him nauseous. What if he hurt her?

"Um…" he murmured to himself, stopping his scrubbing while Rosie continued to splash, blissfully unaware of his predicament. What if it _was_ invasive and he traumatized her without meaning to? What if he accidentally broke her hymen? What if she ended up needing therapy later on in life because of Sherlock and John found out and decided to divorce him and leave and… _shut up_ , he scolded himself.

Still. Despite his extensive study of human anatomy, Sherlock knew nothing about vaginas. If he didn't wash Rosie's, could it get infected? He had read that they were self-cleaning, but how much could they clean on their own? Maybe he should look it up…

"Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson called. Rosie squealed at her voice and splashed again, sending a wave of droplets over Sherlock's shirt. "Need any help?"

"I—yes," he admitted, thinking it best to be truthful. This was for Rosie's safety, after all.

Mrs. Hudson came in quickly and beamed at Rosie's smile and the massive stack of bubbles on her head. "So sweet," she cooed. "How's everything going?"

"Fine. I've washed everything but the," he nodded.

Mrs. Hudson looked confused. "But the what?"

"You know."

She shook her head. "I really don't."

"Her…little girl part." It was the best child-friendly euphemism he could come up with.

Mrs. Hudson laughed. "Oh Sherlock, are you afraid to do that? Here, it's easy. Let me show you."

Sherlock wasn't sure how Mrs. Hudson could know how to bathe a baby since she'd never had one, but he wasn't surprised that she did. "You just take a dab of the baby soap," she showed him. "Here, hold her still for me. Thank you, now just watch as I go front to back, like this. Just like you do when you're changing her."

Rosie kept giggling and making baby talk, and Sherlock relaxed. She didn't seem to be traumatized, but then maybe that was because Mrs. Hudson was doing it. Possibly reading his mind, she handed him the soap and said, "Now you try."

Sherlock took the shrinking bar and tried to do exactly as Mrs. Hudson had, as gently and lightly as possible. "That doesn't hurt, right?" he asked anxiously.

"Ba!" was Rosie's answer, kicking the water. Mrs. Hudson laughed.

"Now how do I wash it out?"

"The same way you would wash any other part," Mrs. Hudson said in a teasing tone, and Sherlock scowled a bit. Of course. It was perfectly simple. Or at least it was until he had taken the loofah in his fingers and actually had to use it.

Rosie was looking up at him with adoring eyes, and for once she was staying perfectly still as Sherlock moved his hand between her legs. He stopped.

"What's wrong?" Mrs. Hudson asked, her smile fading.

He handed her the loofah. "Watson would be probably better if you washed her."

"Oh Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson squeezed his damp shoulder. "You're doing fine. Really."

Sherlock didn't move. The water was rippling and reflecting the light in a way that reminded him of the pool. He shut his eyes to avoid the onslaught of those memories. As much as he loved every minute with John, it felt like their friendship had been riddled with good intentions turning into mistakes. Going to the pool alone had resulted in John getting kidnapped. Faking his death had resulted in John grieving and distrusting him. Wanting to surprise him at the restaurant had resulted in John being angry. What if this was another case where he wanted to help but would only make everything worse?

"I can't risk hurting her," he said. "I couldn't do that to her and John again."

"Don't worry, you won't." Sherlock turned and Rosie squealed, "Da-dee!" John's face was still pale with red-rimmed eyes, but he was smiling. His voice was fifteen percent clearer and less scratchy than it had been before too.

Mrs. Hudson stood up. "Oh, John, it's so nice to see you looking better. I knew that chicken soup would help."

"It did, thank you," John nodded, and Mrs. Hudson left, as their small kitchen was quickly getting crowded. John stood beside Sherlock and took his arm. "I've washed my hands, but you may want to scrub up afterwards just in case."

 _Typical doctor._ As if Sherlock cared if he caught John's flu. "You sure you're up to this?"

"Course I am," John said a tad impatiently. He guided Sherlock's hand and helped him to gently rinse between Rosie's legs. "Just like that, nice and gentle." Sherlock smiled at the warmth of John's fingers and his careful movements that were laced with love. He was just starting to feel relieved when he noticed Rosie had stopped smiling. "Eh," she said a little angrily as her eyes began to droop.

Sherlock froze. "What's wrong? What happened? Why is she acting like that?"

John snorted. "Because she's _tired_ , you git. You've kept her in the bath past her bedtime."

"Sorry," Sherlock said, and immediately plunged a hand into the water to drain the tub. It groaned and began spiraling down like a little tornado. He should have been keeping track of the time; how on earth did he not think of that? Now Rosie's whole sleep schedule would be thrown off.

"It's all right," John said more softly, reading his mind. "Just dry her off and put her to bed. I need to be getting back to bed myself."

Sherlock quickly poured the bucket of water over Rosie one last time before it was all gone, and then lifted her out. She was significantly less vocal than she had been when he'd picked her up to put her in, and now she rested her head on his shoulder. He found his arms cradling her tighter almost involuntarily. For the first time he felt a wave of sentiment similar to what he'd always felt for John, and kissed the side of her head.

She had fallen asleep by the time he had gotten upstairs to the nursery to dress her and put her in her crib. Sherlock leaned with his elbows on the rail and smiled.

He was only a month into parenthood, but he already loved his new daughter as fiercely as her father.


	2. Toilet Training

When Rosie set down her sippy cup for the fourth time in two hours, Sherlock knew it was time. He took off his goggles and stepped over paints, crayons, colored pencils, glitter pens, markers, papers, and coloring books to where the artist of the family was diving into finger paints. Thank God he and John had plenty of old newspaper in the flat or Mrs. Hudson's rug would have been ruined long ago.

"Watson," he said, choking down the irritation he felt at the next words he had to say. "Do you need to go potty?"

Rosie remained intent on whatever she was creating. Even though Sherlock tried to observe and deduce it, it still looked like it could have been anything from a giraffe to an elephant or maybe a person. She dipped a few more fingers into the paints, having abandoned the brush that was lying near the water jar, and slapped on a gob of purple.

"Rosie," Sherlock said more firmly. "Do you need to use the potty?"

"No," she said too quickly.

Sherlock looked skyward. This was John's area. Sherlock could track urine and bowel patterns with his phone and his mind and get an idea of when Rosie should go and change her nappies when she didn't make it, but beyond that he was useless. It was always John who did the rest. But seeing as John was working a double shift, he was going to have to handle this himself.

"Are you saying no because you don't want to stop painting or because you really don't have to go?" he asked. "Seems to me you've consumed quite a lot of liquids."

"Don't gotta go," she insisted, not looking up from her painting. Sherlock sighed. He knew she was probably lying, and it was a little troublesome if she was already being less than truthful at the tender age of two. Still, John had insisted this was how it was done, and the books Sherlock had read seemed to echo him. Ask, encourage, praise when it was accomplished, and never scold or punish when it wasn't. Always the same, day in and day out.

"All right, but be sure to let me know when you do," Sherlock said, figuring that was the best he was going to get for now.

* * *

"Shulah! Shu-lah!" Her voice was so shrill that Sherlock nearly dropped the sample of O negative he was testing. "I hafta go potty real bad!"

 _Damn_. The evidence had been looking so promising. "All right, just a second!" He tried to keep the impatience out of his voice. John had insisted many times that under absolutely no circumstances was anyone to discourage Rosie from using the toilet. _Ever_ , he'd said emphatically, saying it would undo all of the progress they'd made with her. Sherlock had seen him get up with her in the middle of the night and the wee hours of the morning even after long days at the surgery or chasing criminals through London. _She is going to learn if it's the last bloody thing I do, because I am through with nappies._

Thus, Sherlock had no choice but to abandon his work for the time being and lead an increasingly antsy Rosie to the bathroom. He moved her mini toilet from the corner to the center of the room. "Go ahead," he said.

Rosie didn't move. Sherlock began to grow nervous. "You remember how, right?" He knelt down and touched the seat, which had thankfully been cleaned. "Just pull down your nappy and sit right here."

She shook her head. "I can't."

"Yes you can. It's easy." He patted the seat. "Come on, be a good girl and sit."

"I hafta see you do it first," she said.

Sherlock blinked. "What?"

"You hafta go potty first before I can go."

"I—is that what Daddy does? He shows you how? You know a man like me can't do it the same way as a little girl like you." Rosie looked down.

"Please can you do it first?" she whimpered, and Sherlock's heart melted a bit when he noticed she sounded scared.

"Yes, all right," he said, and stood up. Well this was going to be tricky. He lifted the lid of the adult toilet and started to reach for the zipper of his pants, then stopped. If he urinated the normal way, it might confuse her. For the purpose of quelling her fears, it was probably better for him to sit down and not flash his two-year-old daughter.

"Um, just watch me," he said, and put the seat down. He started to pull his trousers down—no, wait, she might see the bulge in his pants and ask questions. He unzipped as much as possible, scooted back on the seat, and using his hands as cover, pulled his pants and trousers down just enough to get the job done, and did his best to keep his hands covering everything.

"Now observe," he said, and let loose. He was having quite a time keeping his cock from touching the water and covering it up at the same time, but thankfully Rosie seemed to be watching. When he was finished, he grabbed for the toilet paper and held it in one hand and his trousers closed with the other while he stood up.

"See? Now all I do is wipe with the toilet paper, drop it in the toilet, and flush." He did so and zipped up his trousers at top speed, relieved to have this over. "Now it's your turn."

"Okay." She pulled down her trousers and nappy and sat on the mini toilet.

"That's right, good girl. Now just let it go."

Rosie smiled, and Sherlock never thought the sound of urination could be such music to his ears. When it stopped, he smiled and asked, "All done?"

"Yes."

"Good." He took the toilet paper off the roll and handed it to her. "Now tear some off to wipe, drop it in the toilet, and flush."

Rosie had a little trouble with tearing and wiping, but with Sherlock's guidance, that process was soon finished as well. When at last Rosie's tiny finger pushed down the lever to flush, Sherlock thought he could sing for joy.

"Good girl, that was gorgeous," he said as he helped her get her nappy and trousers back on. "Well done." Rosie beamed and Sherlock picked her up, taking the opportunity to grab a washcloth and wipe some of the paint off her face too. "Do you think you could do that again for Daddy when he comes home?"

"I don't know," Rosie said.

"You don't know? Why don't you know?"

"Because I don't know if I'll have to go then, idiot."

Sherlock chuckled. "I should probably stop using that word around you," he said, and carried her back to her paints.


	3. Breasts and Bras

The two of them tiptoed around the subject for a long time.

Naturally it was Sherlock who noticed first, probably even before Rosie did. Her shirts were getting lumpy sometime after her ninth birthday. He noticed the other girls in her class too, many of whom were early bloomers. He lost count of the number of nights they would all be sitting together for dinner and conversation would lull into comfortable silence, and it would have been just the right time if only he hadn't felt so awkward. _Do you think it's about time to wear a bra, Watson? How do you feel about shopping for a bra on Saturday?_ None of them seemed right. Every time he started to mention what was to him an obvious signal that she was fast approaching puberty, he worried too much to do it. What if it wasn't so obvious to ordinary people? What if Rosie and John thought he was a pervert for observing Rosie's budding breasts at all?

This wasn't his area. Not in the slightest.

And whenever something came up that wasn't his area, Sherlock's default course of action was to leave it to John. Unfortunately, the good doctor seemed equally stumped. After a time, Sherlock could tell he was noticing too. When they were in bed one night he grumbled that Rosie was outgrowing her clothes too quickly, and Sherlock seized the opportunity.

"Do you think it's time for us to buy her a bra?"

"Ye—probably," John said once he'd recovered from the shock of the question. "I guess I should have figured you'd thought of it, but you pay so little attention to women's bodies I wasn't sure."

Sherlock smiled, rolling on his side to face him. "This is normally the type of thing mums handle, isn't it?"

"Yeah," John said, picking at the blanket. "I keep hoping she'll come to us. Harry did with our parents when she started to get breasts. But then again, she was older than Rosie."

"I can't believe this is happening _already_ ," Sherlock said, folding his fingertips together. "I was under the impression that female maturation didn't take place until somewhere between the ages of 11-16. I thought we'd have a few more years."

John shook his head. "It's happening younger nowadays. 8-12 is the new 11-16. For some girls it can even happen as young as seven."

" _Seven_?"

"Yeah, but that's fairly rare. Anyway, back on topic, I keep hoping Rosie will come to us and we'll be spared having to tell her we've noticed, but she's either oblivious or doesn't care."

"Mm, we know who she gets that from." John smacked him playfully and Sherlock chuckled.

"I have an idea."

"First time for everything, I suppose."

"Shut up. What if this weekend we take Rosie shopping with us to the mall and we say it's just for clothes in general—she needs new clothes anyway—and while we're there, we just…" he shrugged his shoulders. " _Happen_ to wander by the bras and ask if she wants to try them on."

Sherlock nodded. "Brilliant, John. And what will we do if she says no?"

John huffed. "Then we gently explain to her that we think it's time she starts wearing them."

Sherlock said nothing for a moment as a thought occurred to him. And after all these years, John could tell. "What?"

"Should we even bother? It seems wrong to force her to wear a bra if she doesn't want one. I once had an annoyingly talkative client tell me that her bra made her shoulders hurt and left scratches all over her chest."

John thought that over. "I want her to at least try a few on. There's all kinds, you know, sports and underwire and probably a bunch of others I don't know about. We'll maybe get a saleslady to help—measure her and all that stuff—and find some that she'll like. Rosie's still pretty flat, so she could probably get away with one of those training bra things. If she absolutely can't bear them after trying them on then, well, I'll buy her baggier clothes, I guess."

Sherlock snorted. "That's your solution?"

"Sherlock, I don't want my nine-year-old daughter's nips on display for everyone to see! There are some blokes out there who are right pigs, and Rosie's starting to look older than she is."

"All right," Sherlock conceded, turning out the light. John knew better than he did about these things. "Let's take her shopping."

* * *

In the coming days, Sherlock's nerves were creeping higher and he didn't know how John's weren't doing the same. What if he did this all wrong? What if he embarrassed Rosie or made her feel like he expected her to be grown up already? Every time he was around her, he felt himself tensing involuntarily.

Whenever Sherlock had a problem, he liked to solve it through research. He helped himself to John's anatomy textbooks and medical journals. He combed through reviews of different types and brands of bras and searched for women's fashion magazines—which he couldn't believe he was doing for a nine-year-old—and, in a moment of desperation, he opened his phone and composed a text.

 _John's 9-year-old daughter needs a first bra. Not my area, nor his. Suggestions? – SH_

He had the answer in seconds.

 _Soft-cup wireless, size A or B. Adjustable straps. Get a good sports bra and a regular bra that's either white or a light neutral color that will go with anything. Bright or dark colors will be see-through. No lace; it's just for showing off and does nothing for comfort. If she doesn't love it in the store, she won't wear it out of the store. Never put a bra in the dryer and have her take it off when she goes to bed. Kate and I will be happy to model if you like._

"Tch." Sherlock texted _no thanks_ and quickly deleted the conversation so John wouldn't be jealous. Not that Sherlock wouldn't love that, but it was better not to have him asking questions and foolishly thinking he had any interest in The Woman. He had the inside answer he needed and now he felt better.

* * *

Saturday arrived too soon, and after bribing Rosie with ice cream and a stop at Build-a-Bear, Sherlock and John led their daughter into the mall's biggest department store. They had picked it specifically because the bra section was close to the girls' section.

"What clothes are we getting?" she asked, jumping over the cracks in the tile floor.

"We're getting you some new shirts and if you want, maybe a new dress or two." He glanced at Sherlock, and even the dimmest of minds could have read the question on his face. _Are you going to do this or me?_

Much as he was still nervous, Sherlock didn't want to force John to do anything that would make him feel uncomfortable. "Watson." When he had her attention, he pointed to the bras, trying to sound as casual as possible. "What do you think about trying on one of those?"

Rosie followed his finger and those blue eyes that so resembled John's got big. "Aren't those for grownups?"

"They're not just for grownups," John said. "They make them for young girls too. Can you come look at a few with us?"

"Yes!" Rosie hopped over a few more cracks toward the walls of undergarments. "If I put one on, will I be just like a grownup woman?"

"No, but you'll be like a big girl who is going to be a woman." John guided her through the aisles and Sherlock scanned the labels for the kind The Woman had told him about. There weren't many wireless choices, especially for young girls. Sherlock could see why she had suggested it; the wired ones looked a little painful. He sampled the fabric of several with his fingers.

"Watson, how about this one?" he handed her a size A soft bra that had adjustable straps, a beige color, and no wire.

She took it from him and turned it in her hands, going a little quiet. John folded his arms. He and Sherlock both waited in anticipation.

"Well?"

"I don't know," Rosie said. "I don't know what a bra's s'posed to feel like."

"It's supposed to feel comfortable," John said. He knelt down and showed Rosie the claps in the back. "See this? You put your arms through the straps and then fasten this in the back. You can adjust the straps like this," he moved the adjuster up and down. "Adjust it like that until it's comfortable and your—breasts—feel supported."

"Um, okay," Rosie said, going shy. Sherlock joined John on the floor, ignoring the dirty look the salesman was giving them for blocking the aisle.

"We don't have to buy this one," Sherlock reassured her. "Just try it on. If it doesn't feel right, we'll look for another. Okay?"

"Okay." Rosie hurried to the dressing room and disappeared into it. Sherlock and John waited outside.

"Should we make her show us how it looks?" Sherlock asked.

"Definitely not," John said with a quick shake of his head. "She's nine now; that's the age where you don't want your parents seeing—"

"It fits!" Rosie burst out of the dressing room and stood in front of them with her arms stretched wide and her new garment on display for every customer in the store to see. Sherlock laughed and John blinked rapidly, shook his head again, and said, "Okay."

"Does it feel good?" Sherlock asked, coming closer. The new positions of the straps showed she had adjusted it, and going by the tightness she had been able to work the clasp and—he really needed to stop deducing his daughter's breasts.

"Yeah, it's really soft."

"Oh good," John said, and they could all hear the relief in his voice. "We'll get it for you then. Now quickly, go back in there, take it off, and put your shirt back on. And put the bra back on the hanger!" he said, but Rosie had already shut the door behind her.

Sherlock smirked. "That's our girl."

"You are a terrible influence," John pointed a finger at him in mock sternness. "She's heard that story about you in Buckingham Palace a few too many times."

Sherlock put his arm around John. "But at least that's one hurdle we've cleared."

"The first of many," John whispered as Rosie exited the dressing room again. "Our girl is starting puberty."


	4. Pads and Periods

Molly was to blame for what Sherlock and John later referred to as "the blood battle." When she arrived in 221B to begin babysitting while they went out for a case, Rosie rushed to give her a hug. Her spaghetti strap top made the change so obvious even an unobservant idiot couldn't miss it.

"Wow, I see you started wearing a bra!" Molly said. "You're really growing up fast."

"Yeah. Do you wear a bra too?" Rosie asked.

"I do," Molly said. "I've been wearing them for a long time now," she laughed at that. Sherlock thought but managed not to say that her laughing at her own jokes betrayed her insecurity.

"Have you lost all your baby teeth too?" Rosie asked, dragging Molly to where her dolls were scattered in a pile on the floor.

"Oh yes, I lost those a long time ago. And I got my period when I was just a little older than you."

Rosie frowned and right away Sherlock knew he was in trouble. "What's a period?"

Molly's smile faded and turned into an open mouth. She turned her head slowly.

"Well, we'd better be going," John said quickly. They had barely taken two steps when Molly crossed her arms and said, "Hold it."

They stopped with slumped shoulders.

"Shame on you," she said quietly. "Shame on both of you. You're a doctor, you're both her fathers, she's nine years old and already wearing a bra, and you haven't told her about periods?"

 _Does she have to do this in front of Rosie?_ "It's not like we were hiding it," Sherlock said.

"Yeah, just waiting for the right time," John said. Admittedly it was because they were scared shitless to talk about something so personal and because it felt way out of even the best father's depth, but they weren't about to tell Molly that.

"Now is the right time." Molly pointed to their respective chairs. "Sit."

"Molly, we can't right this—"

"Now, or I'm going home."

John sighed and Sherlock tried not to roll his eyes. They dropped onto the sofa and Rosie climbed onto their knees while Molly sat at the table in the corner, glaring at them.

"What's a period?" Rosie asked again, her eyes hungry for whatever juicy secret her dads had been "keeping" from her.

They exchanged a look. Sherlock played the easy card. "You are the doctor." _And the biological father._

"It's something that girls and women start to experience when they get older," John said. "A sort of…monthly cycle, where blood comes out of your private parts."

 _"Blood?"_

"It's perfectly normal," John said, holding up a hand at her shrill tone. "Happens to every cisgender girl and some trans boys. You bleed from your private parts for a few days every month and then it stops."

"Why?"

"Because your body is preparing for you to maybe have a baby someday. See, when you get older, every month your body will start to make a nest just in case it has a baby. But when there is no baby, it has to get rid of the nest. And it does that by sending blood out of your vagina. That's what you have between your legs."

 _A simplified version,_ Sherlock thought. Later he planned to sit Rosie down in front of his laptop and give her a full biological tour of the reproductive system.

"Does that mean the blood will get everywhere and ruin my clothes and our floor and everything?"

Sherlock put a hand on her arm. "No, it won't. There are these special pads you can find at Tesco that you put in your pants, and they absorb all of the blood. We'll buy them for you and show you how to use them. You just have to change them out every few hours."

"Will it hurt? Janie said her sister once lost a lot of blood in an accident and she passed out."

John smiled and spoke gently. "This isn't like that. This is _supposed_ to happen, Rosie. You're supposed to lose this blood. It won't hurt at all."

"Hah!" Molly grimaced. "I wouldn't say that." She faced Rosie. "Sometimes you can get a stomachache. Or a backache or a headache. But if you take some medicine, it usually goes away pretty fast."

"Will I bleed forever?" She sounded so pitiful that both of them rushed to contradict her.

"No no, not forever. Just a few days a month and then it will stop. And when you get to be much older, around 50 or so, you'll stop completely and you won't get any more periods."

"Can I make it stop whenever I want?"

They shook their heads and Molly muttered, "Wouldn't that be the dream."

John stroked her hair. "You don't need to worry, sweetheart. You may not get it for a while. Every girl is different."

"When it happens, we'll be there to help you," Sherlock added. "But for now…" He looked to Molly with an edge in his voice and she nodded. They hurried off to their case, but neither one was about to put off the period issue anymore.

* * *

The next morning John stumbled into the bathroom bleary-eyed, thinking he really needed to learn to just call in sick whenever Sherlock had a case, seeing as the nights were always late. Hopefully a shower would wake him up.

He started the water only to realize there was only one towel left hanging up. _It really gets tiring being the only person in this flat who bothers to do laundry._ There should have at least been some extra towels under the sink though, so he crouched down and opened the drawers.

Sitting between him and the towels were nine different bags of pads and fifteen different pain relievers.

"Sherlock," John groaned.

"Yes, John?" He jumped, not having noticed Sherlock's presence at the door. "The bed is conspicuously cold without you."

 _Trying to butter me up already._ "Sherlock, what's all this?"

"Obvious, isn't it? Those are for Watson when she begins menstruating. I've also placed some in the pockets of all of our coats and jackets so we'll have one if she starts while we're out someplace."

John sighed. "Sherlock, come on. She's not going to need _all_ of this, and anyway it could be years before she starts."

"The online reviews were conflicting, and this way she can try them all until she learns what's best. But don't worry, I put the extra towels in the hall closet." He bent over to retrieve the stash he'd set down at his feet, then handed them to John.

"Fine. Guess it's better to have too much than not enough," John grumbled, and Sherlock hugged him as they got into the shower together.

* * *

Molly, however, continued to show little sympathy.

"Please," Sherlock begged her one day. "Just this one topic, we'll take care of everything else."

Molly shut her eyes. "Sherlock, I'm not her mother. I really don't feel comfortable with this."

"But you're the only one who can," Sherlock said in his softest voice. This was one of the few times he could remember when he had asked her to do something without showering her with compliments first. "John and I lack both the experience and the equipment. Mrs. Hudson hasn't used them in decades and even if she had, she has trouble bending over and her arthritis prevents her from handling the applicator properly." When Molly stayed quiet he added, "Please. It's for Rosie, not for me."

The look she gave him brought that day of drug testing at Barts back to his mind. "Let me make one thing clear: I'm not touching anything."

"Fair enough."

"I'll go into the bathroom with her and talk her through it, but no more. And she has to start with pads first."

"Yes, of course." He wanted to hug her but had a feeling that would be "not good," so he stuck out his hand instead.

Evidently he was wrong, because Molly slapped the hand aside like it was insulting and put an arm around him. "I hope she's a better learner than I am. It took me years to figure out tampons."

"With you as a teacher, I'm sure she'll be fine." Sherlock meant it, and he could tell by Molly's smile that she knew it too.


	5. The Talk

Sherlock knew trouble was brewing when he joined John in the kitchen. To be fair, he had known something was off since Rosie's graduation from primary school. Her father was proud, of course, but the smile had been void of teeth and his tremor had acted up again. A week later, the vacant stare, the unread paper, and full plate signaled to Sherlock that this would be no ordinary breakfast. Nevertheless, he sat down anyway.

"Our little girl isn't little anymore." Ah, good. John was learning to get to the point, even if it was unclear why said point was a problem.

"Eleven years isn't exactly old, John. She's not even a teenager yet."

John sighed. "No, you git, but think about it. She's starting secondary school next term." He straightened up, and both Sherlock's body and mind were paying attention as he assumed his soldier face.

"It's time we talked to her."

Sherlock tilted his head. "About?"

"Mm, you know."

"No." Sherlock shook his head.

John pursed his lips. "She's already started puberty—you know, having started her monthly last year and wearing a bra the year before that, and when she gets to secondary school, they're going to start teaching them about that stuff. I'd rather her hear it from us first."

Sherlock groaned. "Hear about _what_ , John? You want us to talk to her about what she already knows? Far as I can tell, the only change that hasn't happened yet is her getting taller. She's even starting to get acne, and I know she's starting to get underarm and leg hair based on how she's dressing."

"For Christ's sake, Sherlock, I'm talking about sex."

That startled Sherlock, as it always had before he and John had become romantic partners. "Sex?"

"Yes, sex. We need to tell her about it. You and me."

Sherlock blinked as rapidly as he had that day so many years ago, a quirk that always turned John's heart to mush and made him want to overwhelm the man with affection. It was comforting to think that Sherlock was as clueless in how to go about this as he was, though John found it surprising that Sherlock hadn't thought about this before, given how thorough he was about planning.

When Sherlock finally recovered, he asked, "So…what are we going to tell her?"

John laughed. "Hell if I know. My parents were good Christian people, they didn't talk about that stuff. Well, my mother was, anyway. One time my dad threw a box of condoms at me and told me if I got a girl pregnant, he'd kill me. That was pretty much the extent of my education."

Sherlock moved to his end of the table and drew him close. The need always arose when John brought up his childhood. "My parents handed me an anatomy textbook and told me to read it," he said with a slight snicker. "My mum, ever the academic."

John nuzzled his chest with his cheek. "How about we just explain to her how the process works, teach her about consent, and let her know we're here for her if she needs help?" He frowned. "I know one thing, I don't want her to be shamed into abstinence like I was. Led to some…unhealthy habits down the road."

Sherlock tightened his hold around him. John never liked to talk about his late teens or twenties much, and Sherlock wasn't certain he wanted to know much about it. Which was saying something, seeing as he usually hungered for any and all data about the love of his life.

He was probably the least qualified person in the world to teach Rosie about sex, considering John had been required to teach _him_ everything _he_ knew about sex, but there was no problem that research couldn't solve.

"I'll have some data on contraception and condoms by Sunday," he promised with a smirk. "Then we'll give Watson our own version of Sunday school."

* * *

As Sherlock scoured every website on condoms, birth control, and how to initiate The Talk with your child, John waged an internal war on whether to buy Rosie any supplies. The very thought made him shake; eleven years old was _way_ too damn young to even think about this shit. Still…the world wasn't the safest for young girls and he knew that you couldn't always count on teenagers asking even open-minded parents to buy them things later.

He lingered in the family planning aisle of the store for far too long, staring at adult boxes with the adult designs and the adult contents and trying not to imagine them in his child's hands. _God, we were in such a hurry for her to get older so she could be more independent, and now I'm wishing she had stayed little._ If it were up to John, none of this would be dealt with until Rosie was around fourteen or fifteen. But he wasn't naïve. Kids were talking about sex and dating and unintended pregnancies when _he_ was eleven years old.

Still. The last thing John wanted was to feel like he was granting permission for her to engage now. _When you're a few years older, you can come to us if you want to be sexually active._ Rosie needed to understand that waiting a few years—at least—was non-negotiable as far as he and Sherlock were concerned. So. No condoms and no birth control just yet.

Satisfied with that decision, he turned to leave…and slowed right back down. Plan B had caught his eye and wasn't letting go.

"She doesn't need that," he said to himself, shaking his head. "No. No. She won't—" But what if she did? Or worse, what if the choice was taken out of her hands? John had to take a moment to breathe deeply and calm his heart and hand. He wouldn't think about that. No need to invent trouble before it happened. Better to do what he could to stop it from happening and have a plan if it did.

John left the store with Plan B in his hand. His bus took him around London twice before he finally remembered to get off.

* * *

"Am I in trouble?" Rosie asked with a slight whine. She was between her fathers on the couch with a few of Mrs. Hudson's biscuits on the coffee table. Sherlock had thought it would be less intimidating than them facing her in their chairs.

"No, not at all," John assured her. "We just have something we need to tell you about now that you're older and starting secondary school soon." He nodded to Sherlock. _Take it away, mate._

Sherlock nodded and shifted on the couch, and both his husband and his daughter snickered when they saw that the poor man was clutching notecards. John was reminded of his proposal.

"Watson—Rosie, you're getting older now, and you've already been experiencing some, er, changes." God, he sounded like one of those cheesy puberty videos. "But there's one more you don't know about yet that you'll need to know before you start school."

Rosie shifted her eyes from one of them to the other. "What? Is it going to hurt?"

"No, no," they reassured her. Sherlock continued, speaking rapidly, "You see, there comes a time in the human lifespan where previously absent or dormant hormones and chemicals begin to react. Assuming you're not asexual, and that is statistically probable, you'll likely experience an evolutionary urge within the next few years to seek a release for that urge and engage in reproductive activities. Our mission is to prevent those activities from resulting in unintended consequences while at the same time relieving you of the societal burden of misogynistic puritanical practices derived from uneducated authoritarian masses, and we intend to do this by equipping you with protective supplies if and when they should become necessary." He sat back with his fingers together, pleased to have delivered his speech.

Rosie turned to John. "Dad, what does any of that mean?"

John laughed, face palming with a grin. "Oh, Sherlock, you funny sod." He should have known he would end up translating for him. Resuming seriousness while attempting to maintain a lighthearted tone, he asked, "Rosie, do you know what sex means?"

"Sex?" She looked up the way Sherlock did when he was thinking. "It means gender, right? Like when people find out whether a baby is a boy or a girl, they say they want to know the sex?"

"Mm, well yes, that's true," John said. "But it also has another meaning. It…refers to the act of—um, well…"

"A penis penetrating a vagina," Sherlock said with bluntness that made John cringe. "Sometimes, anyway. Other times it's—"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, hold on." John held up a hand. "We'll get there, Sherlock. Just hold off."

Rosie took in what Sherlock had said and dropped her jaw. "A penis—what you two have—goes _inside_ what I have?"

"Yes. That's how babies are made." John gestured with his hands. "See, you remember we told you when you were little that women have eggs inside them and men have sperm inside them, and when the two are mixed, they make a baby. This is how that mixing happens. The man's part goes inside the woman's part, and he ejaculates, which means he releases his sperm, inside of her. The sperm fertilizes one of the woman's eggs, and then that makes a baby. Then of course the baby grows inside the mother's stomach for nine months."

"That's _gross_!" Rosie said shrilly. "What if the man had to go to the bathroom inside her?" Sherlock and John laughed, relaxing just as Rosie tensed. "I'm serious!"

"We _are_ potty trained like you, you know," Sherlock said with twinkling eyes. "And as I was saying before John interrupted, sex doesn't always happen like that. It's the only way a baby can be made, but sex can technically be the penis going into the woman's—or man's—mouth or backside."

 _"_ _That's even worse!"_ Rosie shrieked. "So gross, why would anyone do that? Doesn't that make a huge mess?"

Again they laughed, each one feeling relieved that Rosie was uninterested. A few more years of childhood innocence were certainly to be desired. Sherlock pointed to John. _You take it from here._

"There can be a few messes, yes, but it makes the people doing it feel good, so they don't mind," John said, trying not to giggle. "And, look, I know this stuff sounds terrible to you now, and to be honest I'm glad about that, but you won't always feel this way. When you're older, you'll probably want to have sex. It's how romantic partners bond with each other."

Rosie grimaced as if she'd eaten something bad. "Not with a penis. No way." Sherlock smiled and mouthed, _That's my girl_.

John shrugged. "If you'd rather be with a girl, that's perfectly fine. Then you wouldn't even need to worry about birth control." Seeing she was about to ask, he clarified, "The stuff that stops babies from being made." He continued, "All we need you to do is make sure that you're ready and that if anyone is pressuring you to have sex before you're ready, that you're able to tell them to shove off."

"When will I be ready?" Rosie didn't appear as though she'd ever be, but her voice was concerned.

John set his hand on her knee. "No one can tell you that. You yourself may not even know for a while. It's like anything else in life; you just feel it. Someday you'll meet someone that you'll want to be close to in every way." He frowned. "But not until you've gotten older. The body needs to, er, mature first. And no matter what age you have sex, you need to be careful about getting pregnant and about STDs."

"STDs?"

"And that's where I come in," Sherlock said. He had researched all of the STDs extensively and spent the next 45 minutes both regaling and horrifying Rosie with their transmittance patterns, their symptoms, and their treatment and prevention methods. John chimed in here and there with medical tidbits. "Moral of the story, use condoms and get tested whenever you have sex with a new person."

Rosie groaned and picked at a biscuit. "This is a lot to remember. If I don't have sex, I don't have to deal with any of it, right?"

Sherlock slung an arm around her. "Don't worry, all of this stuff is online, and you can always ask us if you forget any of it. All we need you to remember right now is that you should only have sex when you're ready, with the right supplies, and when you're with someone who makes you happy. And if you need help, you come to us."

"Please," John added. "If you ever need birth control or condoms or tests, anything like that, come to us. Even if it's bad news or you don't think we'll like it, we'd much rather you tell us so we can prepare you than not tell us and risk you getting pregnant or getting one of those diseases."

Rosie pulled them to her. "M'kay."

"Just one last thing," John said, swallowing his courage. "I need to give you this." He reached under the couch for the handles of a grocery bag. Out of it came the Plan B, which went into Rosie's hand. Sherlock was surprised, but not shocked.

"I need you to hold onto this. It has a shelf life of four years, so it'll last until you're fifteen. This Plan B is an emergency pill that prevents pregnancy for around three days after sex. If you're using a condom and it breaks, or you realize you forgot to take your birth control, or if, God forbid, someone tries to force you to have sex against your will, take this pill immediately," he said, hitting the box for emphasis on each word.

Rosie clutched the box. "Someone can _force_ me to have sex?"

"That's what rape is," Sherlock clarified. "You remember that news segment on telly and you asked me what the word meant? It's when someone forces someone else to have sex, usually a man forcing a woman but not always. Now it's illegal and wrong and if it ever happened to you, we'd kill the bastard, but since there are bad people out there and we can't be with you every moment, we want you to have that just in case."

Rosie turned the pill over and read the back. She hugged her fathers. "Thanks," she said hesitantly. "It all sounds like rubbish, but thanks anyway." They hugged her back and pat each other.

 _We did it. Yeah, as well as we could._ Considering neither of them had ever had to worry about getting pregnant and this was new territory, that was saying something. Now their little girl wrinkled her nose and said, " _You_ two don't do those things with the mouth and the backside, right?"

They pulled apart. Sherlock and John were quiet, each asking the other with their eyes, _How do we answer that?_

No answer was needed. Rosie took in their expressions, screeched _Ew!_ and rushed up the stairs, leaving her laughing fathers behind.


	6. Dances and Dresses

Not even during a double murder had anyone ever run up the Baker Street stairs so fast as Rosie did that day. The front door slammed against the wall, the resulting breeze scattered Sherlock's notes, and the man himself was startled—a rare sight to see—out of his beekeeping book. John sighed with relief when his teacup didn't break after a fall from his hands.

"Where's the fire?" Sherlock asked sarcastically, because no doubt he could deduce right off that there was no such emergency. At least, not what he or John would consider an emergency.

When Rosie had caught her breath, she squealed, "There's going to be a school formal and the most gorgeous girl in school asked me to go!"

"You're not going."

"WHAT?" Her voice reached such a pitch that John almost felt a ring in his ear. Since entering into her teenage years, Rosie had taken to talking much louder. Had it been anyone else, the habit would have been unbearable for them. For her, however, they would tolerate it.

"I was kidding, relax," John said, giggling. "God, I didn't know you were so invested already. Who's the girl?"

Her voice lost its loudness. She mumbled "just a girl at my school" and John and Sherlock smirked like devils. "Don't embarrass me! _Please_."

"Now why would we do such a thing like that?" John asked innocently.

"Yes, really," Sherlock said with a mischievous look at John. "We just want to find out more about her."

"NO!" And now it was back. "Please, Sherlock, Dad, don't do this again."

"Do what?"

Rosie rolled her eyes. "You _know_ what. Interrogation and stalking. You scare off half the people who might interact with me, even _platonically_."

"If you're referring to that boy whose parents are Portrait Gallery curators, I assure you, we did you a favor," Sherlock said.

"Yeah, we're not going to interrogate or stalk anyone," John agreed, with a wobbly grin that wouldn't fool an infant. "We're just—going to have a talk with her."

Rosie groaned and flopped onto the couch with her head in her arms. "I don't need you guys to talk to her. What I need is a new dress."

Ah, now this has piqued the husband's interest. Sherlock closed his book and perched himself on the edge of the chair. "A new dress?"

"Mhm."

Sherlock turned to John with a snap of his fingers. "Get us a subscription to all major women's fashion magazines. I'll browse the shops online and see if I can find a reliable source for alterations."

"Wha—hang on, Sherlock, can't we just take her shopping?" John's grin was gone. He was already crunching budget numbers on a mental calculator. "Just pop over to the mall and have her try on what she likes?"

"The _mall_?" they said in shocked unison, as if it were the most scandalous suggestion imaginable.

"Yes, the mall. We could…" Sherlock's arms were crossed and Rosie was shaking her head with eyes to the sky. "All right, we'll do it your way." He sipped his tea and let Sherlock and Rosie jabber about styles over Sherlock's laptop. _It must be different for girls_ , he thought. His own strategy had always been to rent a tux from the cheapest place around and be done with it. But no, that was too simple and ordinary for Posh Boy and Teenage Girl.

* * *

John learned the hard way not to make any suggestions or have any opinions whatsoever on dresses. Every time he pointed to a picture and said, "What about that one?" he received horrified stares and a lecture on the seasonality of lace or the material disadvantages of satin or the messages conveyed by a certain color coordination or something equally nonsensical. Apparently clothing could speak a language he didn't understand, because Sherlock, Rosie, _and_ Mrs. Hudson were forever bent over a laptop claiming that this garment "says" bold or that one "says" confident woman.

He decided to concentrate on the one thing Sherlock _didn't_ have more knowledge than him on: social etiquette. A week before the dance, he took Rosie aside.

"Remember to link your arm in hers as you walk in the door like this," he demonstrated and ignored her skyward expression. "Whoever's closest should hold the door open or pull out the chair. Don't get too close when you dance. Stay away from any boys, especially if they're older than you. Yes, I _know_ you're a lesbian, I'm just saying. And please, for God's sake, _watch your drink_."

Rosie laughed and escaped out the door. "Dad, don't worry! It'll be fine. Things are different from when you were my age."

"Wasn't _that_ long ago. And I'm not going to have two people in this flat who don't know how to be social," John grumbled, and continued to plague Rosie with advice throughout the week. Until, that is, she was away at a friend's and her date arrived for an interview.

The girl was a year older and just the right height for Rosie to kiss. Her dress and leggings were the perfect blend of casual and formal, her dirty blonde hair was straight as a rail, and she was playing with the straps of her purse, betraying the nervousness she attempted to hide with a sweet smile.

"Sit," John pointed to the client chair. Sherlock said nothing, preferring to stare over his fingertips. She took her seat and set her purse on the floor, still wearing that smile. Rosie was helping the school decorate for the dance and wouldn't be home until later.

"You are aware, of course, why we've called you here today?" Sherlock finally asked. Her smile began to wane.

"Something to do with me taking Rosie to the dance?"

"Precisely. I ran a full background check and I have some concerns." John had to stifle a giggle at the papers in Sherlock's lap. Rosie was going to kill him.

The poor girl's face paled. "You—ran a background check? On _me_?"

"He's thorough," John said proudly, crossing his arms. "Leaves no stone unturned when it comes to our daughter." _Or anything else, really._

Sherlock pointed to a spot on the paper. "Ah yes, here it is. On December 1st of last year, you accepted a job as a clerk in a toy store. Only six weeks later, you left that job. Would you say this implies a lack of commitment on your part?"

"That—I—it was a seasonal gig for the Christmas season! I was never supposed to be there longer than six weeks, it was just a way to earn extra money."

"Ah, so it's money you're after," Sherlock nodded. She gaped and glanced from him to John. "I can see why. Your bag has the appearance of a designer, but it's actually a knockoff from a local thrift store, and that phone sticking out of the top is an outdated model several years old."

"Sherlock," John said with a warning. Unlike his husband, he had some idea of what it was like to live on a low income. _Don't take this too far,_ he said with a look.

Understanding, Sherlock nodded and motioned to John, who took the reins. "Look, we just want you to know that our daughter is the most precious person in the world to us, and our only child. She means everything to us, and we want her to be treated the way someone as special as her deserves." _Also I was in the army,_ he wanted to add but thought better of it.

The girl relaxed. "Yeah, of course. Rosie means a lot to me too. She's the person I most look forward to seeing at school every day." Daring a look at Sherlock, she quickly said, "And I promise to have her home by eleven."

Sherlock's eyes were nearly slits. "The dances only goes until ten."

"Yes, well, there's traffic and…whatnot."

"The average traffic time from Baker Street to the dance location is—"

"No later than eleven," John cut him off. He pointed to her. "Make sure she's home by then. We'll be waiting up for her."

"Yes sir," she said, starting to sweat. Sherlock treated John to his special you-wouldn't-let-me-show-off pout. "Is that all?" she asked hopefully.

Again John cut Sherlock off. "The last thing I need to know is how you're getting there, and then you can go."

"Well, a big group of us are pooling some money together for a limo. Rosie said you were helping her contribute."

"I am."

"Sherlock!" John bristled. They were going to have a talk about finances later that night. Rosie's dress was already expensive enough.

"A necessary investment, John, given these two are young women and traveling in a big city at night."

She nodded. "Mm, that's what we were thinking. That, and getting to ride in style. And there will be a bunch of us together, all looking out for each other both ways."

John stood. "Promise me you'll stick together and won't break her heart, and you can go."

"I promise!" she said and rushed out the door, thundering down the stairs. John smiled. Sherlock resumed his thinking pose.

"Seems like a nice girl," John said.

"Possibly," Sherlock said, refusing to commit. Knowing him, he could ask the girl's favorite color and find suspicion in the answer. Still, it warmed John's heart to know that it came from a place of love.

* * *

Rosie peered around the curtain for the tenth time to view the darkening streets. "This is all your fault," she grumbled. "You two scared her off."

"Nonsense, we simply asked her a few routine questions," Sherlock said with an amused grin. He couldn't take his gaze from the beautiful dress he had helped her pick out. Pink suited her perfectly, and adding a little curl to her hair was just the right touch. A pity she wasn't a biological relation or she might have inherited some curl from him.

John put an arm around Rosie, wrinkling his nose at the cloud of hairspray surrounding her. "She'll be here any minute, don't worry." He gave his voice an assurance he didn't feel. School dances hadn't had the best history in this family. Sherlock had spent them alone at home, knowing his presence wasn't wanted and pretending that didn't bother him. John had, by his own admission, been a bit of a pig as a teenager and invited a girl out that he didn't care for that much. He'd had one thing on his mind, and it wasn't dancing. She hadn't been a bit happy when she'd figured that out, and he had rightfully been abandoned on the dance floor.

 _Please let one of us have a good experience_ , he prayed, albeit to a god he didn't believe in. He found some hope in the thought that Rosie could go knowing who she was and not needing to be afraid to show it. John had no clue when he was her age, and Sherlock had known but hadn't dared to say so given the lack of acceptance at the time (plus he had attended a more rural school, a fact he constantly bemoaned).

"I hate that this is different for girls," Rosie said. "Guys can go to a dance alone and no one thinks anything of it, but if a girl goes alone, she's a pathetic loser who can't get a date."

"She'll _be_ here," John said softly. And right on cue, the bell rang and Mrs. Hudson squealed. Rosie raced downstairs and her fathers smiled, following behind her with their phones. They reached the foyer just as Mrs. Hudson finished adoring over the girls' dresses and the corsage of yellow roses Rosie had received. Sherlock nodded his approval and John held up his phone.

"All right, pictures! Pictures, please, come on."

"Another tradition?" Sherlock asked. It had thrown him for a loop earlier that "getting ready was half the fun" and that yes, Rosie was _supposed_ to spend hours on her hair and nails.

"Yes, very much so," John said. He aimed his phone and waited for the camera to focus on the smiles in front of him. "One, two, three!" He snapped away and Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson joined him, though the latter was having trouble figuring out the mechanisms of her camera.

Rosie moved to the door impatiently. "Can we be on our way now?"

"As soon as we get our hugs." She granted them their wish, then hurried out with a wave, where the limo and a group of girls awaited her. "Have fun!" John called.

"Yes, and don't forget to be back here in five hours, thirty-three minutes, and twenty-six seconds!" Sherlock shouted to her date. Rosie distantly yelled, "Sherlock!" before disappearing into the limo. John and Sherlock watched it until it stretched around a corner, arms around each other.

"I hope she has the time of her life," John murmured with a warm smile.

Sherlock squeezed his shoulder. "I have no doubt she will." He tilted John's chin up. "And she's not the only one who has a fun-filled evening ahead of her."

John grinned. "Oh?"

Sherlock moved back and extended a hand. "May I have this dance?"

"You may," John said, and allowed his date to sweep him off his feet.


	7. The Pap Test

As the time for their retirement came ever closer, the "Baker Street Boys," as folks had sometimes called them, began to relax. They had done it: raised a daughter they hadn't expected into a kind, intelligent person. Now they just had to help her through one more year of university and then they'd be free to pack up and move to their cottage in Sussex Downs.

221B was quiet without Rosie. Even when Sherlock played the violin, the flat seemed thick with emptiness. Her room was rarely disturbed and there wasn't much in it anymore, just a bed and a small chest of drawers with a few boxes of things she had left behind. As such, Sherlock almost felt like he was trespassing when he went in there to do some cleaning in preparation for her homecoming. The place had accumulated enough dust to be a health hazard, John's knees weren't what they used to be, and Mrs. Hudson was no longer with them, a fact that still made Sherlock quiver like a lost puppy. So it was up to him to get the place cleaned.

He hated doing things like this. It was well worth doing for people he loved of course, but it was dull and dredged up sentimental memories. Rosie had left her dress for the school dance hanging in her closet, the puberty book they had bought her on the shelf. And—oh, this was something, her old mini toilet from when she was still in nappies. Sherlock had no idea it was even still in the flat, and here it resided far back in a corner of the closet.

He smiled. There had been challenges in raising a girl, that was for sure. Even John, brilliant doctor and former ladies' man that he was, had been stumped at times. But somehow they'd made it through potty training, periods, and everything in between. And now that Rosie was 21 and long finished with puberty, they wouldn't have to worry about clearing any more anatomical hurdles.

* * *

Sherlock really did hate being wrong.

"I went for my physical while I was at Uni and the nurse said I have to start seeing a gynecologist soon," Rosie said when John asked. Ever the doctor, he was always making them go for checkups and asking how it went.

"And you're not happy about this?" Sherlock adjusted his glasses so he could see her face better. His aging transport made deducing difficult.

Rosie hugged a sofa cushion to her chest. "No. They're probably going to do a pap test."

"They should, it's important," John said. Sherlock and Rosie shared an eye roll.

"Dad, do you know what happened to my roommate when she went for hers? He didn't believe her when she told him she was a virgin, and when he did the pap test, he broke her hymen! She was bleeding when she came home and cried all night."

Sherlock sat up and hunched forward, eyes locked on Rosie and hands folding under his chin. "You didn't go to this gynecologist, right?"

"Hell no, 'course not. But I'm still afraid of another doctor doing the same thing." Her shaky voice stirred something primal in Sherlock's stomach. "I know one thing, I'm only going to a woman doctor."

"Excuse me," Sherlock said, and got to his feet. A certain British government's retirement point had arrived long ago, but the man had yet to meet it, which in this case should prove quite fortunate.

 _Need a favor. – SH_

 _I am not bailing you and John out of prison again. – M_

 _No need. All I ask is that you locate the best and most gentle female gynecologist in London. Preferably one with a history of compassion for patients. – SH_

 _For Watson, I presume? – M_

 _Obviously. – SH_

 _I'll see what I can do. – M_

* * *

Rosie's quietness filled the cab. Maybe it was because she was jammed in the middle seat between Sherlock and John, but the former thought she was keeping her legs unusually close together. That morning even John had noticed that she was wearing tight trousers instead of the loose, flowey, and sometimes baggy things she normally preferred.

"It'll be all right," Sherlock whispered, hoping the cabbie couldn't hear them. "I've researched her history. She won't hurt you."

"No she won't," John added. "Or she'll have us to answer to."

Rosie smiled but her shoulders didn't relax. Traffic was getting heavy, and John was glancing nervously at the meter. When they were a block away, he insisted the cabbie stop there and the three of them got out and walked the rest of the way.

 _Central London Obstetrics & Gynecology. _The building was smaller than it had looked online, but Sherlock could see that it had been well kept up. Inside it was busy, full of women, many of them pregnant and toting small children. One was carrying triplets, another twins for the second time, that one over there was trying to get pregnant and failing, and the woman in the corner had become pregnant by accident but was refusing abortion for religious reasons—

"Sherlock?" Oh, right. Now wasn't the time to be deducing. He refocused on Rosie.

"Were you and Dad planning to come in with me?" She sat down and Sherlock joined her while John handled the paperwork—he always filled it out for them because he knew what all the medical jargon meant.

Sherlock shrugged. "I suppose if you want us to, we can. But if not we can wait out here."

Rosie half smiled. "Well I do, it's just…you know, I'm 21 now, and I'm going to be somewhat on display…"

"Right, I know," Sherlock patted her hand. He certainly wouldn't want his parents to go into a doctor's office with him either, especially if his unmentionables would be in full view. Hell, he didn't like to go to a doctor's office period, unless that doctor happened to be a hot army veteran from Afghanistan named John Watson, who was rejoining them now.

"I must have put 'virgin' on that sheet ten different times in ten different ways," he said. "And I made a note for them to use the smallest speculum they have."

"Thank you," Rosie said, and Sherlock's heart lightened at the change in her face. His research had indicated that Pap tests went much better when the woman was relaxed; tensing up would only make it worse. He didn't blame her though; he and John had struggled similarly when they'd had to have prostate exams for the first time. Even the ever-vigilant medical man Dr. Watson himself had to be dragged out of the flat for that one.

"Rosamund?" The door opened and the nurse stuck her head out. Rosie jumped, and as she reached for her bag to go inside and her hand curled around her stomach, Sherlock found himself standing up and walking over. He was pleased but not surprised when John followed suit.

The nurse hugged the clipboard and looked up at them with a slightly nervous grin. "Can I help you?"

"Yes, Rosamund is our daughter," John said. "We were wondering if we could possibly speak to Dr. Misty for a moment before she goes in?"

The nurse relaxed and nodded. "Wait here, I'll see if she has a minute." She disappeared into a side office just as Rosie came up behind them.

"What are you doing?"

Sherlock ushered her inside. "Just wait for the doctor in the office over there, love." Rosie obeyed, knowing by now not to question Sherlock's confusing instructions. She had learned from an early age that there was always a method to his madness.

John closed the door behind them and they stepped forward as the nurse emerged from the side office with Dr. Misty behind her. She had a warm, matronly face and what Sherlock could tell were experienced hands.

As usual, John tried to be diplomatic. "Hi, sorry to take up your time, we'll only be a minute. We're Rosie—Rosamund's—parents, and well, she's our only child and—"

"And she's a virgin and she's nervous. This is her first visit to an OB-GYN, so we want to ask that you be as gentle with her as you possibly can and use the smallest speculum you've got for the Pap test," Sherlock said, ignoring John's closed eyes and the little "Okay" that slipped out of his mouth. _Well, we were going to be standing here all day with you doing the talking._

"Of course," Dr. Misty said. "I've had many patients who didn't become sexually active until their 30's or even later, and they've all been okay. What we do is take it slowly and pull out and go back in if necessary."

Sherlock felt relieved already, and slightly amused at how her last statement could be interpreted. At least she believed that Rosie was a virgin. "Thank you."

"Sure thing. Would you like to be in the room with us?"

"Oh no, that's okay," John said. "We'll just wait out here. Thanks."

"No problem. She's lucky to have dads like you." Dr. Misty winked at them as she joined Rosie in the office and closed the door. Sherlock and John shared assured smiles.

* * *

Just when they thought they'd go mad if one more child screamed or ran around their chairs, the door opened and Rosie came out. Sherlock and John stood up so fast that the magazines they'd been pretending to read fell to the floor.

"How did it go?" they asked in unison.

Rosie approached them before dropping her voice to a whisper. "Not too bad. It definitely hurt at first, but she was really careful and it was over quickly." Sherlock leaned down, but didn't see any tears gathering in her eyes.

"Feel better?" John asked, clapping her on the shoulder while they made their way to the door.

"Lots," Rosie said. "Especially since I won't have to go back for three years!"

Sherlock chuckled. He hoped that gender biology wouldn't rear its ugly head again until then. It clearly didn't go away with age.


	8. Pregnancy and Breastfeding

They were the two words that had likely changed more lives than any other in the course of human history, and they were being spoken to Sherlock and John by their daughter right that moment in their living room at 10:29 A.M. UK time on Sunday morning.

"I'm pregnant."

"You—I don't—congratulations!" Finding that words failed him, John decided to let his arms do the talking as he wrapped her in them tightly and kissed her cheek. He went through five different facial expressions in a thirty-second span, then switched to doctor mode. "How far along?"

"About two months. We wanted to wait a little while before telling you so we could be sure everything went well. Relitza wanted to be here too, but she's been so busy with work and we didn't want to wait any longer."

Her second sentence knocked Sherlock out of his stupor. "Went well? How do you mean?"

"At the sperm bank," Rosie said, clasping her hands in front of her stomach, which was still flat. "Relitza and I decided that was the best way for this to work, you know, since we wanted our own and there's no man in the picture. And with her bending over and underneath cars and being around all those chemicals, we decided it was best if I carried—"

"You never told me you were going to a sperm bank," Sherlock said quietly. He was already mourning all the research he hadn't done. The best facility, the best doctors, a background check on all the possible donors to find the perfect and healthiest match.

Rosie knew all of this; he had taught her well in the art of reading peoples' faces. "We wanted it to be a surprise. And I know you would have loved to help me, but Relitza and I agreed that we want to be surprised too. When you hand-pick your donor, there's only so many surprises you can have."

"Oh." Sherlock supposed there was some logic there, even if he himself couldn't see any. His heart was hitting his chest hard.

Rosie came closer. "Are you unhappy?"

She sounded so worried that Sherlock could have slapped himself. What was he thinking? This was their daughter sharing the happiest news of her life with the people she loved most in the world! He stood up and yanked her into an even bigger hug than John had given her.

"Of course not, sweetheart," he said. "I'm just so shocked. This changes everything."

"Damn right. We're grandpas," John said with a grin.

Sherlock shuddered. "Ugh, god, tell me that isn't what we're going to be called."

Rosie laughed. "No, you'll be Gramps and Grandad."

"Dibs on Grandad," Sherlock said as he let Rosie go and pat her stomach.

"All right," Rosie said. "But Sherlock?"

"Mm?"

"Promise me you won't go crazy with preparing, okay? Relitza and I are doing our research and taking all the classes and reading all the books, and Dr. Misty is handling all my check-ups. It's all under control."

"I promise," Sherlock said. John stifled a giggle.

* * *

Four months later, a person couldn't move in the now baby-proofed Baker Street for all the baby supplies packed inside it, and lists occupied every corner of the room. Lists of safe foods, unsafe foods, breastfeeding techniques, prenatal vitamins to take, exercises to do before, during, and after birth, and chemicals to watch out for.

"Sherlock," Rosie groaned from her chair—make that her new ergonomic chair specially designed for pregnant women that Sherlock had back-ordered from some obscure company in another country. "You promised you wouldn't go overboard."

"Actually, this is tame for him," John said, bringing their tea from the kitchen. "You should have seen the way he was when we were planning our wedding. I thought the flat would collapse."

"I think it's cute, and very thoughtful," Relitza argued. She was holding Rosie's hand from the sofa and watching her wife stroke her heavy belly. There were times when Sherlock swore he saw movement from the inside. He pulled his eyes away from it and thanked Relitza.

He had always liked her. A brutally honest, blue-collar woman who was a better mechanic than any man he or John had ever known. But despite her only having been to trade school, Relitza was sharp. She had beaten Sherlock at chess more times than he liked to admit and could do mental math almost as fast. It was only a bonus that when she wasn't greasy and smelling of oil, she was beautiful. Her black ringlets contrasted Rosie's blonde locks nicely; she reminded Sherlock a lot of Janine, only much more interesting. She and Rosie would be the best of mothers.

Rosie nodded. Her cheeks were looking plump and a little swollen, just like the rest of her. _I feel like I'm a balloon blowing up until it explodes,_ she'd complained when her clothes no longer fit. "That he is," she admitted. "Though I hope you're as good at finding room for all of this stuff as you are at finding stuff to buy. Oh! Kicking hard now."

They couldn't help themselves; all six of their hands reached out to feel the kick and Rosie laughed. "Don't all touch me at once now!"

Sherlock thought his mind must finally be starting to go in his old age. He knew pregnancy and a fetus moving were just chemical reactions in the reproductive system designed by evolutionary forces to keep the species going, and yet he almost wanted to weep over them. _My grandchild. Our baby's baby._ The kick may have been hard to Rosie, but to Sherlock it was amazingly light, and could only have come from the tiniest, most precious of little baby feet.

John must have been struggling with the same thing, because his voice was loaded with suppression when he asked, "Will you let us babysit for you?"

Rosie covered their hands with hers and guided them lower, where an even tinier pulse touched their palms. "I wouldn't think of asking anyone else."

* * *

 _Don't panic don't panic don't panic don't panic_ but it was easier thought than done. He and Relitza had read all the books, taken all the classes, even watched a few of the YouTube videos (there were some images they would never forget), but they were still utterly unprepared for the moment when Rosie would be hunched over with gritted teeth, hands gripping her hard, mountainous stomach that was stretching her shirt to its breaking point and looked like it would pop any second.

A good minute passed with them standing there like fools until Captain John Watson came out. "All right everybody, listen up! We are going to the hospital and we are going to remain _calm_. Relitza, get Rosie's bag. Sherlock, start keeping time between contractions. I'll call a cab."

"Cab?" Rosie asked as her wife scrambled to their bedroom and Sherlock started the stopwatch on his phone. "Dad, don't we need an ambulance?"

"We shouldn't, unless you're a lot closer than we thought," John said. Sherlock marveled at the calm in his voice when he spoke to the cab company. All the same there was a hard edge to it when he told them that they were to hurry, they needed someone _now_.

Relitza dragged two suitcases out of the room. "I've got the bags. Honey, can you stand up?"

"I'll try. Sherlock, help me." He took her hands and carefully pulled her off the bed. Her belly brushed his and he could almost feel how tight it was. If only he had been a few decades younger, he would have carried her to the hospital himself, baby and all. But since he was 68, he had to settle for working with Relitza to help her slowly down the stairs while John took the suitcases.

"I can't believe this is really happening," Relitza said without blinking.

"Owwww, I would say pinch me but I'm already in enough pain," Rosie moaned.

"Eight minutes," Sherlock declared and restarted his stop watch. They waited for the contraction to pass, then kept going. The cabbie was waiting for them and kept eyeing Rosie nervously.

"Not gonna pop one out in me cab, are ya?"

"I don't know; that will depend on how quickly you get us to the bloody hospital!" Rosie snapped. She struggled into the backseat, barely able to fit between it and the back of the font seat with her belly as big as it was. John and Relitza hurried in after her, and Sherlock reluctantly took the front seat. Much as he wanted to be back there with Rosie, he wasn't her partner or a doctor. The most he could do was keep time and remind himself over and over again not to panic.

By the time they reached the hospital, the contractions had increased to six minutes apart and Rosie was nearly screaming. Her cries were so full of frustration and fear that Sherlock was aching to hold and rock her like he had when she was a baby. In the past he'd always had research and preparation on his side, but now it wasn't enough.

Still, he did what he could, which in this case was to throw a few bills at the cabbie and help Rosie into the emergency room, where she was quickly placed into a wheelchair and taken into a room with Relitza following close behind. Sherlock rushed after them, but was held back when John gripped his arm.

"Whoa, hold up, Sherlock. Let's just wait out here."

"What?" Had John gone insane? "We have to be in there. She needs us."

"No, Sherlock, she doesn't," John said with a wistful smile. "Rosie's an independent adult now. Besides, she's got Relitza, Dr. Misty, and several nurses. You and I would just be a fire hazard."

He tried to pull Sherlock to a seat in the waiting room. Sherlock didn't budge. "John. This is our _daughter_. She's in excruciating pain and she's going through the biggest milestone of her life. How can we not be in there with her?"

John squeezed his hand. "I know waiting is hard, love, but there's really nothing more we can do for her. We're not obstetricians, we've never given birth, and we really don't want to see our adult daughter's vagina. At this point, the most we can do is just be here for her and join her when the baby comes. And it could be hours yet."

Why did his husband have to be woefully logical? That was supposed to be Sherlock's job. He sighed, trying to stir the storm in his stomach. He sat down with John and before even a minute passed, he stood back up again. "I can't sit and wait." He straightened his jacket, wishing he had his full coat; there hadn't been time to grab it in all the chaos.

"Where are you going?" John asked his back.

"To pick up some things for our grandchild."

* * *

Hours upon hours, day turning to night, night turning to morning, and _finally_ , an exhausted looking Relitza came to fetch them. She had nearly tripped over everything scattered around their chairs, but smiled when she saw that they were presents wrapped in colorful paper with big bows and curly ribbons. Some Sherlock had picked up from Baker Street and wrapped, while others he'd bought new that night.

"There are two people in that room who can't wait to see you," she said sweetly, hugging them and reassuring them that yes, Rosie was all right, everything had gone well, the baby was healthy.

Fatigue was slowing Relitza down, and it was all Sherlock and John could do not to push her out of the way so they could get to their daughter. When they reached her at last, the room was empty save their beautiful girl—woman—who was cradling a baby so small Sherlock had trouble believing it was hers. Given how far it had stretched Rosie's stomach, he had expected it to be bigger.

"I'm so proud of you," John said, his eyes welling up. He leaned over to kiss her head and Sherlock saw him break into the biggest smile he'd seen him wear in years at seeing the sleeping child in her arms. "Hey there," he whispered.

Sherlock moved closer. If Relitza was exhausted, Rosie was wiped out. Her hair was stringy and tangled and she was struggling to keep her eyes open, but her arms never faltered.

"Dad, Sherlock," Rosie said. "Meet your granddaughter, Shirley Jay Watson-Holmes Ray."

"Shirley Jay." Now Sherlock was crying too.

"That's right," Rosie said softly. "Named after my two favorite people in the world."

Sherlock couldn't speak. The entire English language and every vocal cord in his body couldn't convey how much he loved and needed this wonderful, beautiful family that he spent so many years of his life thinking he would never have. So instead of speaking, he held out his arms, and Shirley Jay passed from Rosie to John to Sherlock, who was entranced by every part of her. He had never gotten to hold Rosie much as a newborn because Mary didn't like it, so this was the first time he'd ever had prolonged contact with one.

And she was his _granddaughter_. A girl. Another one to go through all the joys of puberty and femininity with, when he wasn't spoiling her rotten, of course. Sherlock couldn't imagine it any other way.

He gently lifted her to his lips so he could kiss her forehead, which was covered in the softest brown baby hair he had ever seen. She may have favored the sperm donor, whoever he was, in terms of hair and eye color, but Sherlock could see bits of Rosie in the shape of the face, and he knew right away that she had John's nose.

Just as he lowered her down, Shirley Jay began to move and whimper. Her face reddened a bit and Sherlock worried he'd done something wrong until Relitza said, "Oh, I think she's hungry."

Rosie held out her arms. "Give her to me so I can feed her."

Reluctantly Sherlock handed the baby back to her mother, who started to open her gown only to stop and look sheepishly at her dads. "Do you um…want to leave for a minute? Or should I get under the covers?"

Sherlock looked to John for guidance and John asked, "Do you want us to leave?"

"To be honest, if you're not too grossed out, I would love for you to stay."

"Course not. It's a perfectly natural process," John said warmly. Rosie gave him a smile and settled back in bed with Relitza snuggling in beside her and Shirley Jay sucking at her swollen breast.

"Besides," Sherlock said with a chuckle. "I think it's finally safe to say that at this point we've handled everything a cis female body can dish out."


End file.
